things move around

On every block stands a crane, or more than one crane - cranes creating cranes, cranes raising or bringing down larger cranes. Cranes grazing like lugubrious brachiosaurs. Cranes communing in the morning sun, practising t’ai chi and ballet. Cranes delicate as honeycomb and strong as bone. A cantilevered crane looking north over the glittering blue of the inlet, drinking in the enormity of its own potential and the giddy joy of the perpendicular. The dust and metal smells of construction everywhere, the calls of the foremen and the sounds of hammering and welding and pouring and drilling like a jungle’s worth of birds at the dawn of the first day of the end of the world.